“I’m certain this is the station where you can get a vehicle to any town you want to go,” the tricycle rider said as he parked, tilting his head a little to look at the young girl sitting at the back.
She didn’t say anything to him. Her body trembling, she focused on untying the knot at the edge of her wrapper. She handed him the five hundred naira note that had been tightly squeezed because of the strong knot she had tied. He opened his mouth as if to speak but changed his mind. He roughly pulled the squeezed note from her hand, grumbling under his breath.
Even now she didn’t speak, tears flowing freely from her eyes down to her cheeks.
He handed her two old two-hundred-naira notes and a thirty-naira note, his face stern.
“Thank you,” she said for the first time as she collected the change. Without waiting for any response, she stepped out of the tricycle, looking around anxiously as she tied the money back at the edge of her wrapper the same way she had tied the initial five hundred.
At first glance, one could easily tell she was quite young—no older than fourteen. Naturally, she did not appear mentally unstable, but her behavior made her seem simple-minded. Yet, she was clean from head to toe.
She wiped her tears again and again before whispering weakly, with fear written all over her, “Oh Allah, You see me. I put my trust in You, and from You I seek help…”
“My sister, where are you going?”
A conductor’s loud voice abruptly interrupted her prayer. She looked at him with swollen red eyes and said, “Danya.”
“Danya? My sister, you need to explain more. I’ve never heard the name of that town.”
She went silent, thinking. True, he was right — Danya wasn’t a place vehicles entered easily. She remembered that when they brought Hajiya Lanti from Danya on a motorcycle, they spent the night at Gozarki and from Gozarki they boarded a Katsina vehicle the next day.
“Or is it that you don’t even know where you’re heading?” the conductor cut in again.
Quickly she said, “I’m going to Kusada.”
“...Close to Kano, far from Katsina city,” he joked. She said nothing, just kept scanning her surroundings fearfully, still worried someone might be chasing her.
He pointed. “Look, that vehicle over there will take you to Gidan Mutum Daya. From there, you’ll get a vehicle to Kusada comfortably.”
“Thank you very much,” she said, bowing slightly before walking off.
When she reached the vehicle he pointed at, she didn’t wait long because the conductor was already shouting destinations: “Charanchi! Kankia! Gidan Mutum Daya! Tsanyawa! Bichi! All the way to Kano!”
She quietly slipped into the back where a woman and her two young children sat. She sighed deeply and adjusted the small curtain on the window, praying silently that even if Hajiya and the others were chasing her, they wouldn’t spot her. She begged Allah in her heart that the vehicle should fill quickly so they could leave.
Her prayer was answered. Soon the vehicle was full. She hid herself inside her hijab so much that even when someone sat beside her, she didn’t look up. Only when the vehicle finally moved did she breathe again.
They had travelled far — definitely beyond Katsina — when she heard the conductor demanding transport fares. She brought out the little money tied in her wrapper. When the woman beside her asked, “How much is it to Gidan Mutum Daya?” she listened closely.
“Four hundred naira, ma,” he replied.
“Haba, my son, please consider. Yesterday we came for three hundred each. I even paid two hundred each for these children.”
“That was yesterday, Mama. Yesterday is not today. So your fare with the children is one thousand, two hundred.”
Another man supported the woman, arguing that he also paid three hundred in the morning. An argument started, and eventually the fare was reduced to three hundred and fifty.
The girl remained silent. She simply handed him the four hundred the tricycle rider had given her as change.
“My sister, where exactly are you going?”
“Gidan Mutum Daya,” she answered briefly.
He gave her fifty naira change. She said nothing, just tied it back at the edge of her wrapper. She didn’t hide in her hijab again — she watched the road anxiously. Luckily, the vehicle was good, so they reached Gidan Mutum Daya shortly after Asr prayer, though they stopped several times along the way.
She was confused again at Gidan Mutum Daya. She had never traveled like this before. When they were traveling with Hajiya Lanti, she handled everything. She managed to ask a local bread seller where to get a vehicle to Kusada; he showed her, and she thanked him.
She found four small vehicles lined up. She remembered that people from Kusada usually boarded Katsina vehicles from there.
“My sister, is it Kusada you’re going to?” a young man asked. She nodded quickly.
“Good! Come, we’re looking for just one more passenger.”
She felt relieved. He showed her a red vehicle that nearly made her lose her senses. “Come in,” he said.
Passengers adjusted grudgingly to make space for her. She squeezed in without complaining. Because she was small-bodied, she fit in, though the others were grumbling.
The driver was greedy and rough, but she said nothing. Deep inside, she felt happy she would see her father and Yaya Tine soon, even though they didn’t like seeing her.
Because of the bad condition of the road, they arrived almost at Maghrib, after spending more than one and a half hours. They had also stopped in small villages multiple times.
Her heart began pounding again when she saw everyone giving the driver one hundred and fifty naira. Terrified, she offered him the eighty naira she had left. He glared at her.
“You’re giving me only eighty naira? Didn’t you see what others paid?”
With a trembling voice and tears filling her eyes, she said, “Wallahi that’s all I have left. I left Katsina with five hundred, I gave the tricycle man…”
“Stop!” he shouted. “That’s your problem, not mine! If you knew you didn’t have transport money, you shouldn’t have boarded! I don’t care how you came from Katsina — I want my money.”
Tears rolled down her face as she knelt to beg him. He pushed her away angrily, drawing a crowd. People scolded her, saying she should have told the driver beforehand. She apologized repeatedly — she truly didn’t know the fare.
The driver became more aggressive as the crowd encouraged him.
She knelt and cried until a sympathetic young man gave the driver one hundred naira on her behalf. Only then did they let her go. She bowed to the young man in deep gratitude. He told her not to worry but advised her not to enter vehicles without money next time. She thanked him again and walked away with only thirty naira left.
She didn’t know how to find her village from Kusada. She had never entered deep into Kusada. She only knew the small villages around her own.
She wanted to ask, but she was afraid — and the stomach pain she’d been feeling was worsening. She dragged herself to a small shed and sat. It looked like a herbalist’s spot. Maghrib had already passed.
She curled into herself, body trembling, sweat breaking out everywhere as the pain intensified. She lay on the floor, rolling around, not caring about the mosquitoes biting her. The stomach pain drowned out everything else.
She stayed like that so long that night fell without her knowing. The area grew quieter. Hunger and thirst joined her pain. She hadn’t had real food since yesterday at Hajiya’s house — and she didn’t dare eat the food they gave her there, fearing they might poison her.
She finally sat up weakly, looking around. The place was dark, the road empty except for a few vehicles and motorcycles. Far away, she saw the light from a tea seller’s stand.
Fear gripped her as she lay back down. She covered her eyes and whispered every prayer she knew. Exhaustion eventually knocked her out, and she slept deeply from the stress of the journey and the running she did before catching the tricycle.
Lost, Afraid, and Alone
She woke at the first call for Fajr prayer with severe stomach pain. She groaned and cried until it eased. People were heading to the mosque. Weak and hungry, she dragged herself toward the mosque near the station. She touched several water containers until she found one with water. She scooped some, went behind the shed to urinate and perform ablution, then drank the rest. Only then did she remember she hadn’t prayed Asr the day before — she hadn’t prayed anything since praying Zuhr before she ran away.
She hurriedly prayed all the missed prayers until Fajr, not following the correct sequence. By then, people had started coming out, including drivers and riders.
She watched them for a while, then stood up, following her instinct. She walked toward the tea seller, who was just lighting his kettle and humming a Shata song. She greeted him respectfully.
“Baba, please, I want to ask something.”
He raised his head and looked at her properly for the first time. “May Allah help me answer you, my daughter,” he said.
Still looking down, twisting her fingers nervously, she asked, “Baba, please, where is the road to Danya?”
“Danya? If you mean the Danya near Gozarki, the road is east of here.”
Hearing Gozarki made her face light up. She nodded quickly. “Yes, that’s the one.”
He said, “Then sit and wait for the motorcycle riders going in that direction. But if you can’t wait, get one here. Pay him thirty naira and he’ll take you straight to Gozarki. From there you’ll find riders going to Danya.”
She felt relieved and thanked him. The thirty naira was all she had left, and she was hungry — but she followed the advice.
Soon she found a motorcycle rider. Just as the tea seller said, he agreed to take her for thirty naira. She paid him and climbed on.
Description
Her Journey Begins
“I’m certain this is the station where you can get a vehicle to any town you want to go,” the tricycle rider said as he parked, tilting his head a little to look at the young girl sitting at the back.
She didn’t say anything to him. Her body trembling, she focused on untying the knot at the edge of her wrapper. She handed him the five hundred naira note that had been tightly squeezed because of the strong knot she had tied. He opened his mouth as if to speak but changed his mind. He roughly pulled the squeezed note from her hand, grumbling under his breath.
Even now she didn’t speak, tears flowing freely from her eyes down to her cheeks.
He handed her two old two-hundred-naira notes and a thirty-naira note, his face stern.
“Thank you,” she said for the first time as she collected the change. Without waiting for any response, she stepped out of the tricycle, looking around anxiously as she tied the money back at the edge of her wrapper the same way she had tied the initial five hundred.
At first glance, one could easily tell she was quite young—no older than fourteen. Naturally, she did not appear mentally unstable, but her behavior made her seem simple-minded. Yet, she was clean from head to toe.
She wiped her tears again and again before whispering weakly, with fear written all over her, “Oh Allah, You see me. I put my trust in You, and from You I seek help…”
“My sister, where are you going?”
A conductor’s loud voice abruptly interrupted her prayer. She looked at him with swollen red eyes and said, “Danya.”
“Danya? My sister, you need to explain more. I’ve never heard the name of that town.”
She went silent, thinking. True, he was right — Danya wasn’t a place vehicles entered easily. She remembered that when they brought Hajiya Lanti from Danya on a motorcycle, they spent the night at Gozarki and from Gozarki they boarded a Katsina vehicle the next day.
“Or is it that you don’t even know where you’re heading?” the conductor cut in again.
Quickly she said, “I’m going to Kusada.”
“...Close to Kano, far from Katsina city,” he joked. She said nothing, just kept scanning her surroundings fearfully, still worried someone might be chasing her.
He pointed. “Look, that vehicle over there will take you to Gidan Mutum Daya. From there, you’ll get a vehicle to Kusada comfortably.”
“Thank you very much,” she said, bowing slightly before walking off.
When she reached the vehicle he pointed at, she didn’t wait long because the conductor was already shouting destinations: “Charanchi! Kankia! Gidan Mutum Daya! Tsanyawa! Bichi! All the way to Kano!”
She quietly slipped into the back where a woman and her two young children sat. She sighed deeply and adjusted the small curtain on the window, praying silently that even if Hajiya and the others were chasing her, they wouldn’t spot her. She begged Allah in her heart that the vehicle should fill quickly so they could leave.
Her prayer was answered. Soon the vehicle was full. She hid herself inside her hijab so much that even when someone sat beside her, she didn’t look up. Only when the vehicle finally moved did she breathe again.
They had travelled far — definitely beyond Katsina — when she heard the conductor demanding transport fares. She brought out the little money tied in her wrapper. When the woman beside her asked, “How much is it to Gidan Mutum Daya?” she listened closely.
“Four hundred naira, ma,” he replied.
“Haba, my son, please consider. Yesterday we came for three hundred each. I even paid two hundred each for these children.”
“That was yesterday, Mama. Yesterday is not today. So your fare with the children is one thousand, two hundred.”
Another man supported the woman, arguing that he also paid three hundred in the morning. An argument started, and eventually the fare was reduced to three hundred and fifty.
The girl remained silent. She simply handed him the four hundred the tricycle rider had given her as change.
“My sister, where exactly are you going?”
“Gidan Mutum Daya,” she answered briefly.
He gave her fifty naira change. She said nothing, just tied it back at the edge of her wrapper. She didn’t hide in her hijab again — she watched the road anxiously. Luckily, the vehicle was good, so they reached Gidan Mutum Daya shortly after Asr prayer, though they stopped several times along the way.
She was confused again at Gidan Mutum Daya. She had never traveled like this before. When they were traveling with Hajiya Lanti, she handled everything. She managed to ask a local bread seller where to get a vehicle to Kusada; he showed her, and she thanked him.
She found four small vehicles lined up. She remembered that people from Kusada usually boarded Katsina vehicles from there.
“My sister, is it Kusada you’re going to?” a young man asked. She nodded quickly.
“Good! Come, we’re looking for just one more passenger.”
She felt relieved. He showed her a red vehicle that nearly made her lose her senses. “Come in,” he said.
Passengers adjusted grudgingly to make space for her. She squeezed in without complaining. Because she was small-bodied, she fit in, though the others were grumbling.
The driver was greedy and rough, but she said nothing. Deep inside, she felt happy she would see her father and Yaya Tine soon, even though they didn’t like seeing her.
Because of the bad condition of the road, they arrived almost at Maghrib, after spending more than one and a half hours. They had also stopped in small villages multiple times.
Her heart began pounding again when she saw everyone giving the driver one hundred and fifty naira. Terrified, she offered him the eighty naira she had left. He glared at her.
“You’re giving me only eighty naira? Didn’t you see what others paid?”
With a trembling voice and tears filling her eyes, she said, “Wallahi that’s all I have left. I left Katsina with five hundred, I gave the tricycle man…”
“Stop!” he shouted. “That’s your problem, not mine! If you knew you didn’t have transport money, you shouldn’t have boarded! I don’t care how you came from Katsina — I want my money.”
Tears rolled down her face as she knelt to beg him. He pushed her away angrily, drawing a crowd. People scolded her, saying she should have told the driver beforehand. She apologized repeatedly — she truly didn’t know the fare.
The driver became more aggressive as the crowd encouraged him.
She knelt and cried until a sympathetic young man gave the driver one hundred naira on her behalf. Only then did they let her go. She bowed to the young man in deep gratitude. He told her not to worry but advised her not to enter vehicles without money next time. She thanked him again and walked away with only thirty naira left.
She didn’t know how to find her village from Kusada. She had never entered deep into Kusada. She only knew the small villages around her own.
She wanted to ask, but she was afraid — and the stomach pain she’d been feeling was worsening. She dragged herself to a small shed and sat. It looked like a herbalist’s spot. Maghrib had already passed.
She curled into herself, body trembling, sweat breaking out everywhere as the pain intensified. She lay on the floor, rolling around, not caring about the mosquitoes biting her. The stomach pain drowned out everything else.
She stayed like that so long that night fell without her knowing. The area grew quieter. Hunger and thirst joined her pain. She hadn’t had real food since yesterday at Hajiya’s house — and she didn’t dare eat the food they gave her there, fearing they might poison her.
She finally sat up weakly, looking around. The place was dark, the road empty except for a few vehicles and motorcycles. Far away, she saw the light from a tea seller’s stand.
Fear gripped her as she lay back down. She covered her eyes and whispered every prayer she knew. Exhaustion eventually knocked her out, and she slept deeply from the stress of the journey and the running she did before catching the tricycle.
Lost, Afraid, and Alone
She woke at the first call for Fajr prayer with severe stomach pain. She groaned and cried until it eased. People were heading to the mosque. Weak and hungry, she dragged herself toward the mosque near the station. She touched several water containers until she found one with water. She scooped some, went behind the shed to urinate and perform ablution, then drank the rest. Only then did she remember she hadn’t prayed Asr the day before — she hadn’t prayed anything since praying Zuhr before she ran away.
She hurriedly prayed all the missed prayers until Fajr, not following the correct sequence. By then, people had started coming out, including drivers and riders.
She watched them for a while, then stood up, following her instinct. She walked toward the tea seller, who was just lighting his kettle and humming a Shata song. She greeted him respectfully.
“Baba, please, I want to ask something.”
He raised his head and looked at her properly for the first time. “May Allah help me answer you, my daughter,” he said.
Still looking down, twisting her fingers nervously, she asked, “Baba, please, where is the road to Danya?”
“Danya? If you mean the Danya near Gozarki, the road is east of here.”
Hearing Gozarki made her face light up. She nodded quickly. “Yes, that’s the one.”
He said, “Then sit and wait for the motorcycle riders going in that direction. But if you can’t wait, get one here. Pay him thirty naira and he’ll take you straight to Gozarki. From there you’ll find riders going to Danya.”
She felt relieved and thanked him. The thirty naira was all she had left, and she was hungry — but she followed the advice.
Soon she found a motorcycle rider. Just as the tea seller said, he agreed to take her for thirty naira. She paid him and climbed on.